The Red Notebook Part 1

The Red Notebook.

Antoine Laurain.

Translated from the French.

by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken.

There is little but the sublime to help us through the ordinary in life.

Alain (emile-Auguste Chartier).

The taxi had dropped her on the corner of the boulevard. She was barely fifty metres from home. The road was lit by streetlamps which gave the buildings an orange glow, but even so she was anxious, as she always was when she returned late at night. She looked behind her but she saw n.o.body. Light from the hotel opposite flooded the pavement between the two potted trees flanking its entrance. She stopped outside her door, unzipping her bag to retrieve her keys and security fob, and then everything happened very quickly.

A hand grabbed her bag strap, a hand that had come out of nowhere, belonging to a dark-haired man wearing a leather jacket. It took only a second for fear to travel through her veins all the way to her heart where it burst into an icy rain. She instinctively clung to her bag. The man pulled harder and when she held on, he put his hand over her face and shoved her head back into the metal door frame. She stumbled in shock, seeing stars that s.h.i.+mmered above the road like hovering fireflies; she felt a tightness in her chest and let go of the bag. The man smiled, the strap swirled through the air and he ran off. She leant back against the door, watching him disappear into the night. She was breathing heavily, her throat was on fire, her mouth dry, but her bottle of water was in the bag. She reached over and tapped in the entry code, put her weight against the door and slipped inside.

The gla.s.s and black-iron door provided a safety barrier between her and the outside world. She sat down carefully on the marble steps of the hallway and closed her eyes, waiting for her brain to calm down and start working normally again. Just as the safety signs are gradually switched off on an aeroplane, so the warning lights flas.h.i.+ng in her head I'm being attacked, I'm going to die, my bag's been stolen, I'm not hurt, I'm alive disappeared one by one. She looked up at the rows of letter boxes and focused on the one bearing her name and floor number: 5th floor, left. But since she was without her keys at almost two o'clock in the morning, she realised she would not be going through the door of the left-hand flat on the fifth floor.

The implications of this realisation took shape in her mind: I can't get into my home and my bag's been stolen. It's gone and I'll never see it again. A part of her had been brutally torn away. She looked around as though willing the bag suddenly to materialise, wiping out the scene that had just taken place. But it definitely wasn't there. It would be streets away by now, s.n.a.t.c.hed, flying on the man's arm as he ran; he would open it and inside he would find her keys, her ident.i.ty card, her memories. Her entire life. She could feel tears welling. Her hands could not seem to stop shaking from fear, helplessness and anger, and the pain at the back of her head suddenly got sharper. When she raised her hand to where it hurt, she realised she was bleeding, but of course her tissues were in her handbag.

It was 1.58 a.m. She could not possibly knock on any of her neighbours' doors at that time of night. She couldn't even disturb the friendly man whose name she couldn't remember who worked in graphic novels and had just moved in on the second floor. The hotel seemed the only solution. The light in the hallway had just timed out and she felt for the switch. When the light came back on again, she felt mildly dizzy and had to steady herself against the wall. She needed to pull herself together and go and ask to spend the night at the hotel, explaining that she lived just across the road and would pay for the room the next day. She hoped the night porter would be sympathetic because she was struggling to think of an alternative.

She pulled open the heavy front door and s.h.i.+vered. Not from cold but from a vague sense of fear, as if the buildings lining the street had soaked up something of what had happened and the man might suddenly magically step out from a wall. Laure looked around. The road was empty. The man was clearly not coming back, but it was difficult to control her fear, and it's hard to distinguish between the irrational and the possible at almost two o'clock in the morning. She crossed the road and walked towards the hotel. Her instinct was to hold her bag close to her body but she found nothing but empty s.p.a.ce between her hip and forearm. She stepped into the light under the hotel awning and the automatic door slid open. The grey-haired man at the desk looked up as she walked in.

He agreed to let her stay. He had been a little reluctant, but when Laure began taking off her gold bracelet to leave as security, he had raised his hand in surrender. The young woman was visibly distressed and almost certainly telling the truth; she seemed a trustworthy character and he judged the chances of her coming back to pay her bill at a good nine out of ten. She had left her name and address. Besides, the hotel had faced cases of non-payment that went well beyond a single night's stay for a lone woman who said she had been living opposite for the past fifteen years.

She might have phoned the friends at whose house she had spent the evening, but their number was in her phone. Since the advent of mobile phones, the only numbers Laure knew by heart were her own home and work numbers. The receptionist also suggested she call a locksmith but that too was impossible. Laure had used up her cheque book and had been slow to order a new one; she wouldn't receive it until early the following week. Other than her debit card and forty euros in cash, both of which were inside her wallet, she had no means of payment. It was remarkable how, in situations like this, all the tiny details that had seemed totally insignificant an hour before suddenly seemed to conspire against you. She followed the man into the lift, then along the corridor to room 52, which looked onto the street. He turned the light on, briefly pointed out the bathroom and handed her the key. She thanked him, promising once again to come back and pay as soon as possible the next day. The porter gave her a friendly smile, tiring a little of hearing the same promise for the fifth time. 'I believe you, Mademoiselle. Good night.'

Laure walked over to the window and parted the net curtains. She could see straight across to where she lived. She had left the living-room lamp on and placed a chair in front of the part-opened window so that Belphegor could look out. It was very odd seeing her flat from here. She almost expected to glimpse herself crossing the room. She opened the window.

'Belphegor,' she called in a whisper, 'Belphegor,' making the sharp little kissing sound all cat owners can make.

A few moments later, the black shape leapt up onto the chair and two yellow eyes stared back at her in amazement. How on earth was it possible for his mistress to be across the road and not inside the flat?

'That's right, I'm over here,' she told him with a shrug.

She gave him a little wave and decided to get ready for bed. In the bathroom, she found a box of tissues and some water to clean the wound to her head. As she leant over, she felt dizzy again, but at least she seemed to have stopped bleeding. She took a towel and laid it over the pillow, and then she got undressed. Lying down, she could not stop replaying the scene of the mugging. The incident, which had lasted no more than a few seconds, was now developing into a slow-motion sequence. Longer and more fluid than the stylised sequences in films. More like the ones in science doc.u.mentaries of dummies in simulated car crashes. You see the inside of the vehicle, the windscreen blowing out like a vertical puddle of water, the dummies' heads moving smoothly forward, the airbags inflating like bubble gum and the metal sh.e.l.l lightly crumpling, as if rippled by a warm breeze.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Laurent gave up trying to shave. The electric razor, whose buzzing was the soundtrack to all his mornings, had made a tired groaning sound when he turned it on and had now stopped altogether, giving way to silence. He turned the razor off and on again, tapped the foil, unplugged it and plugged it back in again. Nothing. The Braun 860 with its three rotating blades had given up the ghost. Laurent was upset. He couldn't bear to throw the razor away, at least not yet. He laid it down reverentially in the clam dish brought back from Greece ten years ago. His Gillette razor that he found mouldering in a drawer also turned out to be useless, because of a second setback. When he turned on the bath tap, he was greeted by a dull hiss. No water. The notice announcing that the water would be turned off had been up in the hallway of his building for a week, but he'd forgotten. Laurent looked in the mirror and saw a badly shaven man with strangely dishevelled hair after a restless night. There was just enough water in the kettle for one cup of coffee.

As he left the building he glanced over at the metal shutter of the shop. Shortly he would raise it by turning a key in the electronic panel, then nod a greeting to his neighbour Jean Martel (of Le Temps Perdu, antiques bric-a-brac bought and sold) enjoying a cafe creme on the terrace of the Jean Bart. He would also wave to the lady from the dry-cleaner's (La Blanche Colombe Specialist Dry-cleaning) who in turn would wave back through the window. Then after the shutter was up he would look over his own shop window as he always did with its 'New fiction', 'Art books', 'Bestsellers', alongside 'Books we love' and 'Must reads'.

On the stroke of ten-thirty, Maryse would arrive, followed by Damien. The team complete, the day could begin. They would unpack the deliveries of books and help customers with their varied requests. 'I'm looking for that novel about the Second World War. I can't remember who it's by or the name of the publisher.' And then there would be the recommendations. 'Madame Berthier, I really think you should try this. You were looking for something light to distract you. I guarantee you'll love it.' And the orders to put through. 'Yes, h.e.l.lo, Le Cahier Rouge here. Could I order three copies of Don Juan, Moliere, the Bibliolycee paperback edition?' And the returns: 'h.e.l.lo, it's Le Cahier Rouge. I'd like to return four copies of Tristesse d'ete. It's not selling and I'm changing my displays.' There would be events to plan: 'Laurent Letellier from Le Cahier Rouge here. Would it be possible to organise a signing with your author ...?'

When he had bought it, the bookshop had been a moribund cafe, Le Celtique, run by an elderly couple. They were waiting to sell up so that they could return to the Auvergne and Laurent was their unexpected saviour. The cafe had the added advantage of coming with a flat. That, however, was a mixed blessing. It eliminated travelling, but it also meant that Laurent never left his place of work.

Laurent walked round the square and up Rue de la Pentille. He was carrying the latest novel by Frederic Pichier, who was coming in for a signing the following week. Laurent planned to reread the notes he had jotted in the book over a double espresso sitting outside l'Esperance cafe, where he often ended up on his morning perambulations. The book told the story of a young farm worker during the Great War. It was the fourth book from the author, who had made his name with Tears of Sand, the story of a Napoleonic soldier falling in love with a young Egyptian girl during the French campaign in the Middle East. Pichier was adept at setting the sufferings of his characters against the backdrop of great historical events. Laurent couldn't make up his mind whether Pichier was just a good storyteller or a real writer. There were arguments for both views. But in any case, the book was selling very well and the signing session would certainly be popular.

As he was walking along, Maryse sent him a text. Her train had been delayed and she might be late. 'Keep me posted, Maryse,' Laurent texted back before setting off along Rue Vivant-Denon. As he reached number 6, he checked to make sure his customer, Madame Merlier, had opened her blinds. The old lady, who looked remarkably like the actress Marguerite Moreno, was an avid reader and always rose early. She had remarked to Laurent one day, 'If I haven't opened my blinds, I'll either be dead or well on the way.' They had agreed that Laurent would call an ambulance if he ever saw the blinds down in daytime. But everything was fine at number 6; the blinds were open. Almost the only ones on the street in fact, apparently people were enjoying a lie-in. The area was deserted. He continued on his way down Rue du Pa.s.se-Musette. L'Esperance cafe was right at the end, on the corner between the boulevard and the weekend market. The bins had been put out in front of each courtyard door, some accompanied by pieces of old furniture awaiting the large waste collection. Laurent pa.s.sed one of the bins, slowing down it had taken a little time to register what he had seen then turned back and retraced his steps.

There was a handbag on top of the bin. It was mauve leather and in very good condition. It had several compartments and zipped pockets, two broad handles, a shoulder strap and gold clasps. Instinctively Laurent glanced around him an absurd thing to do; no woman was suddenly going to appear and come and claim her property. From the way the leather bulged it was obvious it wasn't empty. Had it been damaged and empty the owner would have thrown it into the bin, and not left it on top. In any case, did women ever throw their handbags away? Laurent thought about the woman who had shared his life for twelve years. No, Claire had never thrown away any of her bags. She had several and changed them with the seasons. She never threw away shoes either; not even when the little straps on her court shoes wore out she would have them mended at the cobbler's. In fact, even when the shoes were beyond repair, Laurent had never seen a pair in the kitchen bin amongst the peelings. They just mysteriously disappeared. It was still possible that a woman might have thrown away her bag, despite these thoughts that took him back to his past. But on the other hand, the fact that the pristine bag was sitting on its own on top of the bin seemed to suggest something more sinister. A theft, for example.

Laurent lifted the bag. He half opened the main zip and saw that it did indeed contain many 'personal effects' as they were called. He was about to look through the bag when a young woman came out of a doorway, dragging a suitcase on wheels. She went past, then looked back at him. When her eye met Laurent's, she speeded up imperceptibly, then disappeared round the corner. At that moment, Laurent realised how shady he looked a man on his own, ill-shaven with unkempt hair, opening a woman's handbag on top of a bin ... He shut it hastily. What was the moral course of action now: to take it with him or to leave it where it was? Somewhere in the city, a woman had almost certainly been robbed of her bag and in all probability had given up hope of ever seeing it again. I'm the only one who knows where it is, he thought, and if I leave it here it will be destroyed by the refuse collectors or stolen all over again.

Laurent reached a decision: he picked it up and went off up the street. The police station was only ten minutes away. He would drop it off there, fill in a form or two, then come back and settle down in the cafe.

It was strange carrying the bag. Like walking a pet that had been given to you and which only followed you with great reluctance. Laurent held the gold strap like a lead, having wound it round his hand a bit so that the bag wouldn't swing about and attract attention. He was carrying something that wasn't his, that had no business being on his shoulder. Another woman had looked down at the bag then back up at Laurent.

As he made his way up the boulevard, his discomfort increased. He felt as if everyone he pa.s.sed was covertly watching him, having instantly grasped what was wrong with the image: a man with a woman's bag. A mauve one. He would never have imagined that walking about with it would be such an uncomfortable experience. Yet he remembered how sometimes Claire had given him her bag while she went back up to the flat to get her cigarettes or went to the loo in a cafe. So he had found himself on the street holding a woman's handbag. He remembered that he had felt a sort of amused embarra.s.sment but it had never lasted long. Claire would immediately reappear and reclaim her bag. On those rare occasions, Laurent saw that there were women who noticed that the bag belonged to a female, but he had never seen any suspicion in their glances, just amus.e.m.e.nt. He was obviously a man waiting for his wife. It was as evident as if he had been wearing a sandwich board reading 'My wife will be back shortly'.

A group of girls in jeans and Converse parted to let him pa.s.s and he heard a giggle followed by them all laughing. Were they laughing at him? He preferred not to know. Having attracted suspicion was he now a figure of fun? He crossed over and made his way to the police station through the back streets.

The waiting area had putty-coloured walls and a frosted-gla.s.s window with no handle. This s.p.a.ce with its plastic chairs, Formica table and two offices with their doors wide open, where the public came to report the theft of personal belongings, seemed to be no more than a sort of limbo for missing handbags. Five women of various ages sat in silence. In one of the offices, an old woman with a walking stick and a plaster above her eye was sobbing as she recounted the theft of hers. The man with white hair who was with her didn't know where to look. Laurent found himself in one of those purgatorial places one hopes never to have to enter accident and emergency, customs offices at airports, rehabilitation centres ... The kinds of places you pa.s.s thinking you are better off outside, even if it's raining.

'Anyway, our bags will never turn up,' said a small dark woman who was reading Voici.

A young sergeant appeared, carrying several photocopied sheets.

'Excuse me,' Laurent said to him. 'I've come to hand in a bag.'

The five waiting women looked up.

'You'll have to speak to one of my colleagues, Monsieur,' the sergeant replied hastily, indicating one of the offices.

A stocky man with a shaved head and little sunken eyes got up to show a woman out. He glanced at Laurent, who held out the mauve handbag.

'I've come to hand in a bag that I found in the street.'

'That's a fine act of citizens.h.i.+p,' replied the man. He spoke in a powerful voice, adding, 'Come and see this, Amelie.'

A plump little blonde woman came out of the same office and went over to them.

'I told this gentleman that he's performed a fine act of citizens.h.i.+p' he seemed pleased with his expression 'he's brought us a handbag.'

'I agree. Well done, Monsieur,' responded Amelie.

Laurent felt that the young policewoman approved of a man who would take the time to hand in a woman's bag.

'As you can see,' the powerful voice went on, this time with a hint of weariness, 'these ladies are waiting. I'll be with you in, let's say ...' looking at his watch, 'about an hour?'

'At least an hour,' corrected Amelie softly.

Her colleague nodded his agreement.

'Perhaps I'll come back tomorrow morning,' suggested Laurent.

'If you like our offices are open from nine-thirty to one o'clock, and from two o'clock until seven,' the man said.

'Or you could go to the lost property office, Monsieur,' suggested the policewoman. 'It's at 36 Rue des Morillons, in the fifteenth.'

When he left the police station he found another text from Maryse: her train had only just started moving again she would not be there by opening time. Laurent walked past l'Esperance without stopping; he would read his notes on Pichier at work.

The green dustcart had stopped in front of the apartments and two young refuse collectors plugged into iPods were hooking on the bins, which were then emptied noisily into the truck. There was no doubt that without Laurent, the bag would by now have been taken by someone or have ended up in landfill with only flies for company.

Laurent, the temporary guardian of someone else's belongings, went up to his apartment, put the bag on the sofa and went back down again to open the bookshop. The day could begin.

At twelve-thirty, having read the night porter's note about a slightly peculiar guest, the two reception staff began to worry. The woman should have left her room long before now, and by midday check-out at the latest. One of the men decided to go up with the master key. Having reached the room, he put his ear to the wooden door and listened for the shower. He couldn't go striding into a woman's room and risk catching her coming out of the bathroom naked; this had happened to him once before and he had no intention of making the same mistake again. But there was no sound coming from 52. He knocked several times but receiving no reply, he decided to go in.

'Reception, Madame,' he said, flicking the light switch. 'Since you haven't vacated your room, I took the liberty of-'

He stopped in his tracks. Laure was sprawled on the bed, her half-naked body lying between the cover and the sheet. With her eyes closed, she appeared to be asleep. He took a step forward. Her head was resting on the pillow.

'Mademoiselle,' he said loudly, and again, 'Mademoiselle,' as he edged towards the bed. He was becoming more and more certain that something was not right. 'What the h.e.l.l's going on?' he muttered. He said the word 'Mademoiselle' once more, knowing it would be met with silence.

He leant in closer. Her face was perfectly still, the features regular and relaxed. In spite of his growing concern, he found himself noticing she was pretty before forcing himself to focus on establis.h.i.+ng one key point: was she breathing? He thought so. He reached over and touched her shoulder. No reaction. He shook her gently. 'Mademoiselle ...' Her eyes remained shut and she did not stir. The hotel employee stared hard at the woman's bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, watching to see if the chest rose and fell. Yes, all was well, she was breathing. A pigeon landed noisily on the balcony, making him jump. Without thinking, he swiftly pulled back the curtains, sunlight flooded the room and the bird flew off. Perched on a chair in the window of the building opposite was a black cat whose dilated eyes seemed to stare back at him. The man lifted the phone beside the bed and dialled nine for reception.

'Julien,' he said. 'There's a problem with the guest in 52 ...'

As he spoke, his gaze fell on the pillow. Under Laure's head, there was a large patch of dried blood and her hair was stuck to the towel beneath it.

'A big problem,' he corrected himself. 'Call an ambulance, immediately.'

Half an hour later, Laure was wheeled out on a folding stretcher, pushed thirty metres along the pavement and lifted into the back of the red vehicle. The words 'haematoma', 'head injury' and 'coma' were mentioned.

In the boiling-hot shower, shampoo ran down his face. Laurent had sold twenty-eight novels, nine coffee-table books, seven children's books, five graphic novels, four essays, and three guides to Paris and France. He had filled in four loyalty cards and placed fourteen orders. Then the day had finally come to an end and he had been able to close the shop and come up to his flat, noticing on the way that the water was back on. He had spent all day apologising with a smile for his dishevelled appearance. One of his customers had said he looked like Chateaubriand, another like Rimbaud in Fantin-Latour's painting Un coin de table (whilst making it clear that he was only referring to the poet's hair).

Laurent dried his face then took the razor from the drawer and an old can of Williams shaving foam he had luckily kept. Close-shaven, he put on clean jeans, a white s.h.i.+rt and loafers and brushed his hair back, preparing for the opening of the bag as if he were going out to dinner with a woman.

In his inbox he found all sorts of spam. Mostly offering him, in the warmest first-name terms, insurance or a holiday to an exorbitantly expensive destination but all at half price! 'Leave today,' announced one. Another suggested in that chummy digital way, 'Laurent, time for a holiday.' He was also exhorted to buy one of those oddities you come across on the internet, in this case an umbrella for dogs. The email urged him in all seriousness to hurry to acquire this indispensable accessory 'Your loyal companion will be so grateful.' In the midst of this digital forest there was not a single personal message. Yet he was due to have dinner soon with his daughter. No doubt she would appear in his inbox shortly Chloe never forgot an arrangement.

He took the remains of the hachis Parmentier from the fridge and decided to open a bottle of Fixin from the case one of his loyal clients had given him. He tasted it; the Burgundy was perfect. Gla.s.s in hand, he went back to the sitting room.

The bag was there, on the sofa. He was about to open it when he received a text. Dominique: 'Maybe see you this evening, but very late, complicated day, will explain later, still at the office. The Bourse is cras.h.i.+ng, if you watch the news you'll see how I'm spending my evening! x.x.x'. Laurent drank some wine then sent back a sober 'Let me know x.x.x'. Then he sat down cross-legged on the floor, with his gla.s.s beside him and picked up the bag carefully. It was beautiful. Mauve leather, gold clasps and external pockets of various sizes. There was nothing comparable for men. They had to make do with satchels, or otherwise briefcases which were all a standard shape intended only for carrying paperwork. He drank some more wine, feeling he was about to commit a forbidden act. A transgression. For a man should never go through a woman's handbag even the most remote tribe would adhere to that ancestral rule. Husbands in loincloths definitely did not have the right to go and look for a poisoned arrow or a root to eat in their wives' rawhide bags.

Laurent had never opened a woman's handbag. He hadn't opened his mother's when he was a child and he hadn't opened Claire's either. Occasionally he had been told, 'Take the keys from my bag,' or 'There's a pack of tissues in my bag; you can take those.' He had not touched a handbag without explicit prior authorisation, more like a command that was only valid for a very limited time. If Laurent couldn't find the keys or the tissues in less than ten seconds and began to rummage about in the bag, it was immediately reclaimed by its owner. The action was accompanied by an irritated little exclamation, always in the imperative, 'Give that to me!' And the keys or tissues would magically appear.

He gently pulled the zip open all the way. The bag gave off an odour of warm leather and women's perfume.

What I really need is a friend just like me; I'm sure I'd be my own best friend.

Last night's dream: Belphegor was a man, which was a bit of a surprise, but in a way it wasn't. I knew it was him he made quite an attractive man. We were going back up to our room in a luxury hotel after a drink at the bar. We were falling asleep on the bed and then making love on the terrace (it was good). I woke up and he was rubbing his nose against mine (that bit was real, not in the dream). BUY CAT FOOD, Virbac duck flavour.

I like: Walking along the water's edge just as everyone else is leaving the beach.

The name 'americano', but I prefer to drink a 'mojito'.

The smell of mint, and basil.

Sleeping on trains.

Paintings of landscapes without people.

The smell of incense in churches.

Velvet and panne velvet.

Having lunch in the garden.

Erik Satie. Buy an ERIK SATIE BOX SET.

I'm scared of birds (especially pigeons).

Think of other things 'I'm scared of'.

On my way home, I always scan the Metro carriage for 'possible' men. (I've never met a man on the Metro.) I need to break up with Herve. Herve is boring. There's nothing worse than being bored with a boring man.

I like open fires. I like the smell of burning wood. The smell of a wood fire.

I've broken up with Herve. I don't like breaking up. Think of other things 'I don't like'.

It was almost eleven o'clock. Still sitting on the floor but now surrounded by objects, Laurent was absorbed in the red Moleskine notebook. The thoughts of the unknown woman were written over several pages, sometimes with crossings out, underlinings, or words written in capital letters. The handwriting was elegant and fluid. She must have recorded her thoughts in the notebook as the whim took her, on cafe terraces or on the Metro. Laurent was fascinated by her reflections which followed on one from the other, random, touching, zany, sensual. He had opened a door into the soul of the woman with the mauve bag and even though he felt what he was doing was inappropriate, he couldn't stop himself from reading on. A quote from Sacha Guitry came to mind: 'Watching someone sleep is like reading a letter that's not addressed to you.' The bottle of wine was half empty and the hachis Parmentier forgotten on the kitchen counter.

The first thing he had found was a black gla.s.s bottle of perfume Habanita by Molinard. He pressed once on the spray, releasing the powdery scent of ylang-ylang and jasmine. Then came a bunch of keys on a decorative key ring with a gilt cartouche covered in hieroglyphics. Next a little diary with appointment times circled on the appropriate day, with first names, sometimes full names noted. No addresses or telephone numbers. For this month, January, it was filled halfway through. Laurent recognised the make of diary; Le Cahier Rouge sold similar ones in their stationery section. Its owner had not bothered to write her own details on the page at the front that was intended for that purpose. The last event listed was for the previous evening: 8 p.m., dinner Jacques and Sophie + Virginie. No address for that entry either. Just one entry for the coming week, on Thursday: 6 p.m., dry-cleaner's (strappy dress). Next he took out a little fawn and violet leather bag containing make-up and accessories, including a large brush whose softness he tested against his cheek. A gold lighter, a black Montblanc ballpoint (perhaps the one used to jot down her thoughts in the notebook), a packet of liquorice sweets he took one and it immediately added an interesting woody flavour to the taste of the Fixin a small bottle of Evian, a hair clip with a blue flower on it, and a pair of red plastic dice. Laurent picked them up and rolled them on the floor. Five and six. Good throw. A recipe for ris de veau torn from a women's magazine, Elle probably. A packet of tissues. A telephone charger, but of course, no phone or wallet. And nothing with her name or address on it.

There were four colour photographs in a folded envelope. One of a middle-aged man with grey-white hair, dressed in a red polo s.h.i.+rt and beige trousers. He was standing against a backdrop of pine trees, smiling. Next to him, a woman of similar age in a lilac dress, blonde with dark gla.s.ses, held her hand out to the person taking the photograph. It looked as if it had been taken more than twenty years ago, thirty maybe. The next photo showed a much younger man with short brown hair standing with his arms crossed in front of an apple tree. In the third one there was a house and garden with a large tree. There was nothing to indicate the location of the house and none of the photographs were annotated. Here were memories and loved ones that revealed nothing and which only the owner of the handbag would be able to identify.

There seemed to be no end to the items in the bag. Laurent decided to take several out at once. He thrust his hand into the left side pocket and pulled out a jumble of things. A copy of Pariscope, lip balm, Nurofen, a hairgrip and a book. Accident Nocturne by Patrick Modiano. Laurent paused for a moment. So the bag's owner read Modiano, a novelist whose favourite themes were mystery, memory and the search for ident.i.ty. It was as if Modiano was sending him a message. When had he written that book? Laurent couldn't quite remember, but he thought it was around 2000. He opened the book to find the year it was originally published. 'Gallimard 2003' was printed at the bottom of the left-hand page and there was something else visible on the other side of the page. Some handwriting showed through. Laurent turned the page back and read the two lines written in pen beneath the t.i.tle: 'For Laure, in memory of our meeting in the rain. Patrick Modiano.' The writing blurred before his eyes. Modiano, the most elusive of French authors. Who hadn't done any book signings for years and only rarely gave interviews. Whose hesitant diction, full of pauses, had become legendary and who was himself a legend. An enigma that his readers had followed from book to book for forty years. To have a book signed by him seemed highly improbable. And yet here was his signature in black and white.

The author of Rue des Boutiques Obscures had just provided him with the first name of the woman with the mauve bag.

I'm scared of red ants.

And of logging on to my bank account and clicking 'current balance'.

I'm scared when the telephone rings first thing in the morning.

And of getting on the Metro when it's packed.

I'm scared of time pa.s.sing.

I'm scared of electric fans, but I know why.